the importance of being sedaris

I'm not sure why, but I have a pretty good guess.
House-clearing has unearthed some items in plain sight which I haven't touched in years.
In particular, I've revisited several of the journals I'd kept in the past, prior to this shore.
The oldest is from 1977 and is one given to me as a bon voyage present to record my adventures in the Navy. Reading it reminded me that I was glad Mama had not known about the racy escapades in that book.
(smile)
Another had chronicled the journey taken by my first husband and I across Central America. That is, our driving trip from Pensacola, Florida, USA, to Galeta Island, Canal Zone, Panama. While I had been sure that the journal existed, I hadn't remembered that Keith and I had taken turns each day in recording our adventure. How strange to recognize his handwriting and hear his voice in the words! Also, how interesting that things had not been quite the way I had recalled. That made it quite evident that everyone puts their own spin on events. No wonder the police have such difficulty obtaining a cohesive account from multiple eyewitnesses, right?
The most recent was from 2005. So nice to read about a visit with Mother Pat and a visit with Daddy, both still in fine health that year. There was even a very good visit with my "little sister", Susie Boyd, in which she told me that I was the first person who ever accepted her as she was, instead of trying to change her. I loved being reminded of that!
But with all of these journals, only about half of the pages were used. At some point, usually a few months in, I would stop writing. Most likely life had become too busy. I know with the last one, the final entry had been in September of 2005, when I was back to teaching at night while working full-time with Smitty. For the trip to Panama, our arrival there had led to the cessation of the chronicle.

What does any of the above have to do with the post title?
Well, "An Evening With David Sedaris" had found me as a volunteer at the Lucas Theatre. Sometimes, I am there for an event simply because they need ushers, but this was not such an occasion. I had specifically requested to be there. I knew the man by name only and I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.
And so I did.
I'd not realized that he was a writer like me, recording observations and feelings and thoughts. The difference is that he was reading aloud the words he had written in his journals.
That's it, that's the total sum of his actions.
He had brought several of those writings to share and it was just him, a podium for the papers, and a microphone.
Some segments were rather humorous and had the audience laughing along.
The ones dealing with his dying father weren't quite so, but certainly reminded me of the hospital waiting room conversations on multiple mundane topics with my family members when my stepdad was dying.
That's when I understood what radio host Ira Glass had recognized in a Chicago night club in 1992, when the 36-year-old journalist manned the mike. A good story is a good story, period, especially when that story is true and relates to the human condition.

I hope my bits of flotsam and jetsam have some meaning on the distant beaches where the ether tides take them.